Brushfire Fairytales
by hopelessromantic549
Summary: In which the characters get what they want – each other. And, consequently, we get what we want, too. Booth/Bones, Angela/Hodgins, as always.


**A/N: How great would it be if all of them just gave up, gave in, and got naked? Well, let's see, why don't we? ;) Enjoy!**

**Title from song/album by Jack Johnson.**

It is broad daylight when she knocks on his door.

He glances uneasily at the chestnut wood, then down at himself; he is wearing only low-slung grey sweatpants, a staple in his Saturday morning routine. He is suddenly, painfully ashamed of the childish behavior he is definitively indulging in (cartoons, but god, when did he start sounding like her?).

He stands up, stretches his arms over his head. He knows he should put on a shirt – in his experience, his bare chest is something she's not equipped to deal with (never mind her endless knowledge) – but she knocks again, twice on the door, hard and impatient. And he realizes with an ache he can't quite place that she has something to tell him.

His heart bumps awkwardly in his chest as he walks slowly to where she stands. Ever since she strove for the truth despite her uncertainty, ever since she was the only one willing to put aside conjecture and fight for this country (for him, all for him)…he cannot stop looking at her. He traces the curve of her perfectly shaped eyebrows, is mesmerized as she reaches up to sweep a stray lock of mahogany hair out of her piercing, melting blue eyes.

He cannot look away.

He is afraid of what he will say if she comes bursting into this room, all fiery and passionate and _beautifulgodsobeautiful_. He is afraid he will confess everything he has held inside since the very moment he met her, the very moment he knew – felt it, felt the air breeze and something click, even as she stared him down with a disdain she now only reserves for serial killers and rapists – that one day, she would be his wife.

The dream is ever so intangible, but real (he knows it's real, no matter what those stupid surgeons tell him). And soon enough, he will have to tell her just how much he wants her (needs her, loves her, wants her).

But he opens the door, and she is standing there, the barest hint of tears trembling on her sooty eyelashes, but otherwise prim and proper and put-together as always. His breath catches in his throat.

"Bones," he whispers, and there is concern in his voice, even as he sees a spark of anger flit through her crystalline eyes.

She holds his gaze, as steadily as she ever has, and he is confused. She is crying – tears are running noiselessly down those porcelain cheeks, and her eyes are rimmed with red (she looks beautiful all the same) – but she takes a step toward him. Her stance is almost defiant.

He instinctively takes a step backward (she falters). "Bones," he whispers again, and this time there's wonder, because she has reached out to touch him, her delicate hand, a hand that has touched bones and grime and more death than anyone should ever have to see, resting on his chest. With her fingertips, she trails across his skin, light and feathered and almost painful in its affection.

"Booth," she murmurs.

"Bones," he says, again. He is lost in her eyes.

"I –"

He folds her into his arms.

…

It is midnight when she knocks on his door.

He is dumbfounded for a moment; it has been a few months since his wholehearted confession and her reluctant admittance that she wasn't actually pregnant (his heart sped up and he died a little inside – cliché but necessary), and nothing has changed.

Except, of course, for her inexplicable break-up with Wendell, the hesitation in her eyes when her gaze flicks over him, the quick, easy touches that spark with electricity and long-buried (but never forgotten) passion.

He shakes his head, shakes himself free of the hope suddenly welling in his throat, catching and tangling and _mygodJackgetitogether_. He doesn't know why she's here, but he knows it is too much to ask that she be here for _him_.

(She gave up on him – _them_ – a long time ago).

But he opens the door, and she is standing there, as beautiful as he remembers, beneath him and entwined with him and breaking and faltering…he cannot speak. He merely stares at her, trying to keep the questions and hostility suppressed (he does not succeed, but he gave up on pretending that one moment all those months ago).

She opens her mouth to say something, but stills, as if she might regret the words that will spill, tumble out.

He waits.

"Jack," she finally whispers, and her voice is sad and desperate and beautiful all at once – the very epitome of who she is (who she was with him is just a memory).

"Angela."

The word comes out before he can stop it, and he almost wants to retract it. He didn't mean to say anything; he wanted to torture her a little, make her wait for him as she has made him wait for her since they ran from the altar. It has been an uphill battle, even when they were happy, sparkling, joyous.

Even when she loved him.

But he still loves her – he has never denied it, not to her, not to himself – and so he simply crosses his arms over his chest and murmurs softly, gently, "What are you doing here?"

She shakes her head, vehemently, and he raises his chin in defiance. She can't just come here unannounced, can't just toss those chestnut curls at him and expect him to relent, can't just expect him to forget the thought of her having a child with someone other than him and –

"Jack," she says again, and now she has taken a step towards him.

He reels, cringes, falters. But he doesn't move away.

(He loves her).

…

She doesn't resist as he holds her, doesn't pull back. She sighs into him, her tears flitting from her cheeks to his chest, almost like a figurative transfer of pain (he wants to take away all her sorrow, take it into himself and make it all better for her).

He whispers into her hair, that sweet smell of vanilla and patchouli oil seeping into him, "Baby, what's wrong?"

She doesn't flinch at the pet name.

(She loves him).

He sighs when she doesn't answer; he's a little disappointed. There are moments – many moments, recently – when he is sure that she cares for him, sure that she just needs a little more encouragement, sure that sometime soon, she will collapse and break and reveal the deepest parts of herself (all he wants is for her to bare her soul to him). But he knows – _knows_, as surely as he knows that she is entrancing and captivating – that this is not one of those moments.

She pulls back, finally, and those bright blue eyes are shining – with tears or happiness, he cannot tell. He holds her gaze, even though the pain is bubbling, pushing its way through his body, up into his throat and past his tongue and fighting for the release that it's been longing –

"I just realized something," she whispers.

He cocks his head, waits. It probably has something to do with the case they're working on – a five-year-old girl found in a water sewer, main suspect her absentee father. It's hit her hard, this murder brimming with familial disputes. He has helped her through it, held her when a horrific sight has struck her dumb. But there is only so much he can do for her.

But instinctively, he knows this has nothing to do with the work part of their partnership (their friendship, escalating to something he can't define, became the focus long ago). She's hurting. She's hurting, and his heart aches.

"Rationally speaking," she begins, and he smiles (this, _thisrighthere_, this is why he loves her – she's scientific and she's logical and she's just _Bones_ – and that, that, is explanation enough), "A realization, no matter how great, no matter how akin to the epiphany Einstein had concerning electricity or the Eureka moment Archimedes had concerning volume and water or –"

She breaks off. He smiles.

"My point is," she begins again, and her voice is stronger now, full of that determination he admires and abhors in equal parts (she is never more endearing than when she is being infuriatingly stubborn), "No realization can ever change a life, or change the world, or any of those hopelessly delusional sentiments. No realization has the power, empirically, to revolutionize anything."

He nods. He doesn't exactly agree, but he senses – he knows her, knows her in a way that he is positive scares her sometimes – that she needs the coaxing. She gives a small, slight, smile; he catches a flash of white teeth and barely suppresses the urge to catch her bottom lip with his tongue.

"But I would argue, somehow," she continues, and now she falters a little, swaying unsteadily on her feet, and he catches her (as he always does), "That the realization I just concluded may very well change my life."

He is shocked. Did the great Dr. Temperance Brennan, world-renowned anthropologist, noted FBI consultant, and bestselling author, just _contradict herself_? God, this must have been a pretty earth-shattering realization.

Oh God. Wait, it can't be –

"I love you," she blurts out.

He stares at her in bewilderment. She only nods.

And he realizes this may very well change _both_ their lives.

…

"Jack," she says again. She takes another step toward him, and now she is so close that he can smell the distinct citrus scent clinging to her neck. She is flush against him, so intertwined that he can feel her heart beating, strong and hopeful and – always, always, always – Angela.

"Ange," he whispers, and the word is affectionate and soft, more loving than it has been since he told her he was her guy (he meant it then, means it now, even as the dot of hope weakens).

She smiles, and the curve of those pristine lips is so heartbreaking that his brow furrows. "What's wrong?" He is more than curious. He is – dare he say it? – worried. No matter how much she has hurt him (and there is a fissure in his chest that ripples every time she so much as glances at him), he can never escape the utter concern that fills him when she looks like this.

She shakes her head, but she is relenting, he can tell – he knows her, knows her definitely and amazingly and as completely as a person can. She holds his gaze still, those brown eyes warm and suddenly light.

"I'm sorry."

The words hang in the air, lingering in the heavy silence. He blinks. She has apologized so many times, apologized for being married and forgetting about it, apologized for not trying harder, apologized for dating his friend and almost getting pregnant and it not being _him_ –

But this. He is breaking.

"What for?" He stumbles. But still, he does not move away.

She smiles, still sadly, and whispers, "I never forgot what you said."

He realizes she didn't answer his question, but he is transfixed by the words she did say. She never forgot? He didn't expect her to, but he never imagined that she would ever bring it up again. He thought she would want to bury the memory, bury the sight of him, earnest and eager and hoping to be hers, bury the disappointment in his eyes (it mirrored the disappointment in her eyes) when she whispered those final [false positive] words.

But no. He shakes his head. "And?" His voice is harsher than he means it to be, but he is digging, digging for the truth that has eluded him for so long (_why did you leave me _and _will there ever be hope for us_ and _are you sorry you weren't pregnant, sorry it couldn't happen for us…_). He refuses to ask her, but he is desperate to know.

She doesn't look hurt, which is surprising. She merely looks at him, looks at him like she used to, before it all went up in flames and they moved on (well, she did; he just barely survived).

"I'm ready," she murmurs.

He wants to ask her what she means, wants to ask her what exactly she's ready _for_, wants to ask her why she thinks that should matter to him. But he finds he already knows. And he wants to resist her, wants to push away and tell her she can't do this. But he can't, he just can't.

God, he needs her.

"What exactly are you proposing?" His voice catches on the word that matters most.

Her eyes are bright, her smile infectious.

"Marry me."

And with those words, it is all over.

…

He stands still for a moment, just gazing at her. She looks much the same as always: jeans that highlight the unimaginably sensual curve of her legs, sensible black heels that make a clicking sound whenever she walks, emerald green blouse that hugs her cleavage (he gulps and shakes as his eyes follow the fabric down, down, down…) and her hips and her waist and every other perfectly proportional part of her. To put it bluntly, she looks beautiful. (As always).

He wonders what has changed between them.

He shakes his head; did he really hear her right? Did she really just say she…loves him? (It's just not possible).

He doesn't move away. He looks at her, realizes that her hands are still poised on the planes of his chest, her fingers still curling into his skin, as if she's marking him, making her his. What she doesn't know, of course, is that he's been hers since the moment she looked him right in the eye and challenged his authority. (She does it all the time, but those cruel words and that sneer – "Face it: If he wasn't a senator you'd be in that basement looking for the killing floor." – were the first time it meant something).

"Bones," he whispers, letting his hands float to the natural curve of her waist. He's surprised by how comfortable this feels.

"Did you mean it?" He wishes he wasn't so hesitant, he really does. But he loves her – he won't say "too," because this feeling coursing through him has never depended on her reciprocation – and he doesn't want her to feel like she had to say it, like they'd never be okay again if she didn't say it. (They'd be okay; he just would be a mere shadow of his former self).

She nods, and now she's smiling widely, shaking her head and nodding all at once, tears streaming heedlessly down her face, their tracks marring the icy stillness of her features. She moves her hands up his body, cradling his face as gently as she does the bones splayed across her workstation (with awe and reverence and _ohmygodyouaresobeautiful_). She nods, once more, and whispers, "Yes. I love you."

There is no doubt in her voice, which is strange for him – he has imagined this moment many times, but he always thought that when it finally happened (he refused to believe it might not), she would be more hesitant. He always thought that he would have to convince her it was all right – better than all right; amazing – to take a chance. And he certainly didn't expect her to be the one to say it first.

But, he supposes, he should have known better. Temperance Brennan is not a woman who ignores her feelings. She tells it like it is. Frankly, he's not all that surprised that the moment she realized that she cared more about him than she'd ever cared about anyone else, she ran right over here to tell him.

Suddenly, he's smiling. She _loves_ him. (That is cause for a celebration that would rival the fireworks at the Jeffersonian on July 4th).

"Bones," he whispers, gently easing her toward him, his hands gripping her possessively (she will be his, as he was always hers). He has always called her this fond nickname. Over time, it has become almost a secret between them, a word he uses when she's frightened or angry, a word he uses when she's rational or stern or joking or affectionate or just…Bones.

He shakes his head in disbelief. "Bones."

She's still smiling, still waiting. He realizes with a shock that she already knows how he feels, already knows he's going to say it back. (He's surprised and gratified by her faith in him).

He finally closes the distance between them, resting his forehead against hers. He doesn't close his eyes. "I love you."

She laughs. He smiles.

And then he kisses her.

…

He is shocked, but not overly so. She is nothing if not impulsive; she lives by her feelings, lets her emotions consume her. She has often been told it is not healthy (most notably by her best friend, who isn't really one to talk about dealing with her feelings healthily anyways), but still she persists. She knows – and he has learned, solely from loving her _so goddamn much_ – that life is not life without danger and feeling.

He has never known that more keenly than he does right now.

She stands still, waiting for an answer. He knows what he wants to say; he wants to tell her that this doesn't change anything, wants to tell her that she should have said something all those months ago when he basically proposed. But he knows, too, that _all those months ago_, she didn't know how to deal with how he felt about her, didn't know how to deal with the fact that he loved her despite all that had happened between them.

(She's ready now, and he won't make her wait).

He finally takes a step towards her, closing the distance between them, and cradles her cheek in his hand. She leans into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed almost of their own volition. He smiles at the sight. He has loved this woman for so long, and it takes all his strength not to yelp for joy (he almost does anyway).

"Angela," he breathes, and she smiles lazily. The name comes off his tongue so easily, as if it has been waiting to be said for a long time. He wonders if all along, this was supposed to happen. (He is a scientist, but he has always believed in destiny and true love, and this right here is both destiny and true love).

"Do you have an answer?" she asks lightly, not opening her eyes. She unconsciously takes a tiny step forward, so that her legs are against his and her chest is leaning into his and his breath warms her face and _mygodilovehimilovehimilovehim_...

He chuckles, but there are suddenly tears in his eyes. He never thought – not even when he cornered her in her office and told her that he would be whomever she needed, in whatever _role_ she needed – that she would love him again. He was willing to help her as much as he could, yes; he was willing to love her and marry her and build a life with her. But he never imagined that she would come to him without a pregnancy, without any reason except for her own certainty that she wanted to be with him for the rest of his life. He was willing to settle for less; he never thought she would be willing to have it all, always, right now.

He is ecstatic.

He laughs again, pulling her closer still, and murmurs softly, "Yes."

She smiles, breathtakingly. She opens her eyes; he is greeted by the most beautiful brown eyes he has ever seen (all the shades of mahogany that linger in those depths are stunning and enthralling).

"Yes you have an answer, or yes _being _your answer?" she asks teasingly. She is only half-joking, he can tell; she is worried he's going to reject her right her, right now. (He won't).

He leans toward her, his lips hovering just below hers (he is shorter than her by a couple inches, a fact he used to resent but now just accepts as inevitable), and murmurs, "Yes being my answer."

She chokes out a laugh, and suddenly, there are tears welling in her eyes. She looks so gorgeous; he reaches out with his free hand (he has to touch that rosy perfection) and sweeps her hair out of her eyes. She murmurs her gratitude (murmurs her love).

"Jack," she murmurs, the words getting stuck on her tongue, "I'm so sorry. I've messed up so much and –"

He refuses to let her finish. (He can't let her dwell on their mistakes; it's not right).

"I love you." The words are certain, the only truth he's ever spoken. He means them, means them more than he ever imagined possible. He loves this woman; he wants to love her forever. She deserves to know that. "That's all that matters."

She stares at him. He waits.

"I love you," she replies tearfully.

He needs no further prompting. Quickly, easily, naturally – as if they've been doing this all their lives – he leans in and catches her lips with his. He can feel her smiling.

He wonders how he ever got so lucky.

…

She easily responds to his touch, slipping her tongue into his mouth and sighing into him. She traces the contours of his face with her fingertips, as if she's seeing him for the first time, as if she's exploring him (he feels giddy and strong and _alive_).

She is beautiful. Undeniably, indescribably. She kisses like a goddess, all swirling movements and devouring and this endless need that he wants nothing more than to quench. But it's the fact that this is _Bones_ that causes tears to spring inexplicably to his eyes.

He has loved her for five years – he clings to the belief that he fell for her the moment he saw her (yes, cliché love at first sight, but he saw a glimpse of his future when he looked into her eyes), even if he didn't admit to himself for a couple years. This should feel anticlimactic, considering their beginnings and who they are and who they've become and all the moments, all the _opportunities_, they've let pass them by.

But this doesn't feel like an ending, and it doesn't feel like he has waited years for something that was better left untouched. No, this feels potent and important and, above all else, _inevitable_.

(It's the only word that can possibly describe them).

He pulls back, just for air, even though he knows he'd rather breathe her in than breath at all. She doesn't open her eyes, instead murmuring against his mouth, "I'm so sorry I waited so long."

He chuckles (here she is, self-deprecating to a fault, even as he kisses her uncertainties away). "Nothing to be sorry for, Bones," he whispers gruffly, his lips lingering on hers. "But I'm sorry too."

He feels her nod, and they are silent for a moment. He hopes to God she doesn't run away.

(His prayers are answered).

She kisses him, and now he is ready. He will take her, he promises herself, take her into his bedroom and show her what it means to make love. He is certain – as certain as he is that he loves her and always will – that she has never made love with someone, and he is certain that he will be the only man she ever makes love with for the rest of her life. (The thought comes over him in a wave of glorious anticipation, and he feels the joy swell in his heart).

They break apart again, and this time she opens her eyes, he opens his eyes (they are on the same level, on the same page, always – they connect). He smiles, she smiles. She reaches up and twines her arms around his neck, pulling herself against him, resting her head on his chest.

He kisses her hair. "Temperance," he whispers, and the word is both strange and familiar – he can count on his hand the number of times he has called her by her first name, but it feels natural all the same.

She looks up at him. "Yes?" Her voice is breathy, her eyes suddenly a lustful navy. He realizes she wants this, wants _him_. The thought is humbling.

He holds her gaze. "I want to make love to you."

He watches her closely. Her eyes widen, her breath quickens, sweat breaks out on her pale forehead. But she does not move away. She does not flinch. She stays, in his arms. And she does not look away.

She only nods.

He leads her by the hand to his bedroom, not trusting himself to look back at her (he is afraid that the sight of her will make him act like a hormone-crazy teenager, and he does not want that for her). She squeezes his fingers, reassuringly and with more determination than she ever has before, and follows him. He knows it takes great strength for her not to protest at his show of what she would surely call male domination in sexual intercourse, and he appreciates it.

He closes the door behind them at last. She looks at him.

Slowly, he peels off her clothes, then his own. She does not look away.

And then she stands, naked before him, glorious and beautiful and _mygodi'vewantedyouforsolong_…she kisses him.

He sighs into her mouth.

…

He pulls back after a moment, just to look at her, to take in the sight of her (she is finally his; the change must appear in her somehow). She smiles at him, opening her eyes slowly and leaning ever so slightly against him.

She looks exactly like she did a moment ago: beautiful. The only difference is the happiness sparkling in his eyes, and he smiles. He is responsible for that undeniable glow. _He _has made her cry like this, overflowing and overwhelmed and joyous. He is so glad.

"So what now?" she asks, tracing indistinguishable patterns on his chest. He wishes he could figure out what she is drawing, but her art has always been a mystery to him (as much a mystery as she herself is).

He sighs. "Now," he murmurs, letting his voice trail off suggestively, "I show you how much I love you."

She smiles again. He looks at her for a long moment, gauging her reaction, searching her face for any sign of uncertainty. At the slightest hesitation on her part, he knows, he will stop himself from doing what he has wanted to do almost since the moment he met her, even if it kills him (and it will, he knows it will).

But she holds his gaze, resolutely, and there is no doubt shimmering in those eyes. He kisses her.

There is no fire here, and he is glad. He wants this coming together to be full of love and caring; he doesn't really want passion. Of course, he would love for her to scream his name and all that sorts of stuff. But he loves her, and he has missed her all these months. He wants to _be_ with her, wants to kiss her and hold her in his arms and make her understand just how much he loves her (he would die for her).

With her, it has always been love.

He doesn't break the kiss as he pulls her into his house. He walks her slowly up the stairs; she clings to him like a lifeline (he realizes that in many ways, she, too, is his savior). She twines her arms around his neck and lets him lead her down a path she has traveled so many times but has never been so certain is the right one to take.

He guides her gently into his bedroom, letting the door swing shut behind them. She falls back against the bed, letting out a sigh that very nearly makes him come undone. He catches his breath as he watches her, watches her lie there, arms above her head, eyes fluttering open for the briefest, most blessed of moments. He cannot begin to explain how complete he feels.

She smiles at him, pulling him towards her. She starts unbuttoning his shirt, her precise fingers gliding across his chest as certainly as her pen glides over paper. And still, she kisses him. (He wonders if she has gone too long without him to let him go now).

He is shirtless, and in response he pulls her blouse over her head, leaving her exposed beneath him. He cannot speak; she is glorious.

At last, they are both freed of their clothes. He breaks off the kiss, pulls back to gaze into her eyes.

"Angela," he whispers, the word so reverent that more tears spring to her eyes, "I love you."

She smiles shakily. "Jack," she murmurs, the word so longing and important and _iwishihadn'twaitedsolong_, "I love you."

He leans into to kiss her, preambling this very next of connections. But she stills, falters. He waits.

She takes a deep breath. "I am so sorry I waited all these months."

He nods; he doesn't need to hear her say it (he knows she is sorry, has seen the regret in her eyes when her gaze flicks toward him at work, has watched her glance sorrowfully at Wendell back when he still had the right to kiss her, as if to say _i'm sorry but it's not the right time it's not the right guy_). But he knows _she_ needs to say it, so he doesn't stop her this time.

"I was just so afraid," she continues, tears running down her face now, "So afraid that we would mess up again, and I didn't know –"

He kisses her. He kisses her, whispering into her mouth, "It's alright. We're here now."

She nods, and then they come together.

It is much the same as he remembers: soft and longing and adoring and _real_. She is pliable, willing beneath his hands, she undulates and vibrates and sighs and moans. She is tangible, palpable, and his breath quickens as he realizes that she is _his_.

But it is different, too. She is lost and she is reaching and she is desperate for connection, desperate to feel something other than the confusion she has felt for too long. And he wants to make her understand that he takes her back, takes her back unequivocally and irrevocably. He wants to make her understand that he's never letting go of her again.

And when she whispers his name, he knows she understands.

And it is everything he always wanted.

…

When he brings her to a point she never knew existed, she lets out a moan, whispers his name – his _last_ name, a name that will soon become hers (he is sure of it) – into his ear, and murmurs, delicately, softly, gently, "I love you."

"I love you," he promises.

"We became one," she whispers in awe. She is crying. He nods and kisses her tears away. She is shaking; he holds her until she stills. He knows now that he has shown her what it means to make love, and he is glad.

"Yes, Bones," he murmurs into the soft skin of her throat.

"We became one."

…

As they drift off to sleep, his only thought is this:

_This is how it was meant to be_.

…

_fin_


End file.
